Page 16 of Tell Me Where It Ends

Slowly, I make my way to my bedroom. I know sleep won’t come easy tonight—my brain keeps replaying every second of the last few hours.

Still, the apartment feels a little lighter somehow, a little more like home and less like a prison—even if only because Shin is here.

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5a

Where It Doesn’t Hurt

The apartment is quiet, but my brain is loud. From the living room, I can hear the faint rustle of Shin shifting on the sofa-bed.

We’d said a clipped, tense good night an hour ago, the unspoken knowledge of our impending police visit hanging heavy in the air.

I roll over, squeeze my eyes shut, and will my body to relax. It doesn’t listen. Instead, my brain kicks off a marathon of my worst-ever decisions—complete with commentary.

Five minutes pass. Then ten.

Well… look who’s back.

Insomnia, my least favorite old friend, decides to make a guest appearance tonight. The clock glows a mocking red: 4:17 a.m.

My chest throbs with the rush of my heartbeat. I need to sleep. The storm waits for me in just a few hours—questions, cameras, and whatever judgment follows.

My thumb hovers over the meditation app Shin recommended, but I know it’s useless. My mind is a tangled mess of anxiety that no calming rain sounds can fix.

Quietly, I slip out of bed. Shin is asleep on the sofa, his face peaceful in the dim light, one arm tucked under his head. Waking him feels like a federal crime, but desperation is a powerful motivator. I know he still has the sleeping pills.My pills. Confiscated for my own good.

The thought of patting him down to look for the pills feels deeply, deeply wrong. So I am left with one option.

“Shin…” I whisper, hating the thought of disturbing his peaceful sleep. “Can I have the pills? Please.”

His eyes flutter open, heavy with sleep. The usual calm alertness is gone, replaced by a softer, gentler concern.

“No,” he says. His voice is a quiet rumble, kind but absolute.

I frown. “Why not? I can’t sleep. I’m going to look like a zombie tomorrow, and you’ll have to field calls about my ‘emotional breakdown.’ Just one, Shin. Please? For the sake of PR.”

He’s fully awake now, sitting on the sofa. He has the same focused look he gets when studying a new contract—like I am a problem with too many complicated, broken clauses that he is determined to solve. I’m half-convinced he’s about to prescribe chamomile tea.

But then, without a word, he reaches out and takes my hand.

His touch is warm. Calming. Unnervingly so. This is NOT in his job description… isn’t it?Clause 4, subsection B: Manager is to provide logistical and emotional support.

I’m pretty sure unauthorized hand-holding at 4 a.m. is a breach of contract. Never mind that—he gives a gentle tug, a silent command, guiding me toward the sofa.

My brain is still rebooting from the hand-holding when he closes the distance, pulling me into a hug that feels both impossibly gentle and terrifyingly new.

My body goes rigid. My entire nervous system lights up with a single, flashing neon sign: BOUNDARY BREACH. ABORT. ABORT.

Our entire professional relationship is built on a foundation of platonic, hands-off distance, and he has just shattered it. What kind of new HR violation is this?

My brain scrambles for a protocol: Step 1: Breathe. Step 2: Don’t make it weird. Step 3: Try not to melt into his arms.

But he just holds me. His arms wrap around me so gently it’s like he’s afraid he might damage the merchandise—which, frankly, is what he’s paid to protect.

For a moment, the world—the police, the scandal, my imploding career—just fades away. All I can feel is the solid warmth of his body and the comforting scent of him, like clean laundry and familiarity.

Then, a low whisper breaks the spell. “Stay here with me.”